


the hardship of those words

by mergwaine



Category: Godmothered, Godmothered (2020), Santiago Weatherman Fandom
Genre: ALSO theres mentions of nudity but nothing explicit, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Other, POV First Person, a sprinkle of angst just to keep things nice, but also its neutral so anyone can relate :D, but not really, i wrote this but u chose to read it guess who's dumber, literally why do I actually like this, mention of minor death, no editing it is what it is we die like men, somethings can be interpreted as homophobia or whatever, this is lgbt if youre cishet look away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergwaine/pseuds/mergwaine
Summary: You enter a relationship with Hugh Prince (a.k.a) Santiago Weatherman, now you must face your growing feelings towards him and accept his kind-hearted love.
Relationships: Hugh Prince/Reader, Hugh Prince/You, Santiago Weatherman/Reader, Santiago Weatherman/You
Kudos: 5





	the hardship of those words

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually pretty decent and I really enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> enjoy and give kudos if you liked it =)

When you met him, everything was out-of-the-ordinary. You were at the bar, chatting and commemorating your friend’s birthday. You go to the bar to grab another drink and there he is. His sparkling eyes, the overwhelmedness you felt from his smile. You sit down, you breathe. And he glimpses at you and smirks. And that was all it took.

“Hey,” he says. “You’ve got quite a party going on, huh?”

If it were anyone else asking that, perhaps you would be uncomfortable. But the security on which he spoke, the feather-like tone he had with words. You felt safe.

“Yeah, jealous?” you joke. He gets it. He seems like he gets it.

“Absolutely,” he giggles, “I’m Hugh.”

“Nice to meet you, Hugh.” 

  


* * *

The first time he took you out was on an uneventful day, you had just returned from work, early, the tired bones in your back. Covered in flesh that, on that boring morning, didn’t feel exactly right. He was the one who called. You answered. You laid on the couch with the phone on your ear and the feet in its arms. You talked with him for hours, giggling and joking and reciting parts of your favorite plays and pieces and in such a passionate conversation about the songs you liked. You changed the genre, you switched, you tried to impress him with the knowledge you had but he seemed to adapt. From Debussy’s classical works to rock songs to alternative pieces you had heard once. When you finally asked him about it, he just said:

“I’m trying to impress you.”

Ten minutes later he asked you on a date. You agreed. You were always so fixated on that dating scene from your colleagues and co-workers and friends. Going to dating apps, quick relationships that never seemed to last, friends of friends who you thought were cute. Hugh Prince was different from them all. He cared. He showed that.

When you said yes to his proposal, you didn’t expect him to say it was now. But he did.

You met with him in a park, the sun kissing his skin, bathing him with its everlasting heat. He looked warm. He smiled warm. He touched you warm. He gave you white lilies, and when you went to grab them, your fingers touched him. The clasping of hands. The hair he had on a certain part of it, rubbing against your palm. You stared. You stared. You stared. And ever since, you couldn’t stop staring. 

He walked you home. On the stairs of the building, you were one step above him, he touched your hand. The smoothness of his thumb. 

“This is where we part our ways,” he said, smiling. “This was really fun for me, maybe we should do it again, another time?”

You wanted to say, “Let’s go up.” but you didn’t. You knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t go. So you just squeezed his hand, ever so tenderly. 

“Yes! This was really fun for me, too. You’re really... You’re really fun.” you said, and immediately felt awkward for saying it. What was this phrase? Fortunately, he wasn’t this type of person. That’d let you feel embarrassed, so he got on tiptoe and embraced you. His arms were strong, yet fond. You hugged him back, though you were strong, physically, and mentally, you just gave in. Letting him conduct your body. 

  


* * *

On another occasion, you conducted his. A waltz, six months after you were seeing each other. It wasn’t really an event. He was cooking for you, the meal you loved the most. He had this way of overanalyzing things you said once. How he’d appreciate them, how he’d memorize and incrave in his memories the little details about you, your personality, your interests. He had an apron, green flowers all over it. Dough and powdered flour all over the length of his arms, twitching and falling from his arm hairs. 

You enfolded him from behind, your arms over the apron. Touching his stomach, holding him close, moving. You picked his hand and turned him over, making him vulnerable to your body. And you started dancing.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, joyful.

“What do you think I’m doing, Hugh?” you said, feeling the scent of his wavy brown hair. Smell both of a sun-touched green hill, far away from that town and of recently prepared coffee. You loved it. You wouldn’t trade that for the world. His body got easier to carry, and he let you lead. You touched his back, and neither of you really knew how to dance. 

Two steps, one, two steps, one. Though not certain of what you were doing, it felt right. You put your left hand over his face, feeling his hot skin, how the recently shaved beard felt. You looked at his glasses. You smiled. You were happy. He was happy. He leaned closer, your lips touched. As Moon and moonlight affect the ocean tides, you were his sea, and he was yours. Gravity and gravitational pull. Raw tidal force.

“I love you,” he said. And you shut down.

  


* * *

The thing about Hugh was that he was kind, he was compassionate, he’d bought you flowers and chocolates on random days of the week. He’d bring you breakfast in bed. He would smile and touch you and ask if you were comfortable. He would hug you and compliment you and make you feel love. But there was a darker shade to him. He was a journalist. He was an activist. When he’d seen injustice, he would speak up. No matter how uncomfortable other people felt. He wouldn’t tolerate it. He wouldn’t bear the thought that he was being lenient and compliant over oppression. And in that little white suburban town, there was a lot of hatred and bigotry underneath the facade of happiness and joyfulness. He didn’t give a fuck. And that was nice. 

You called your friend and encountered them the next day, it was Saturday. They looked shocked when you told them what happened, there were fluctuations to their pitch, it was high and low, fast-paced and slow. They couldn’t believe it.

“So we were like, just goofing around, you know, he likes that, so do I. And he, with his sore, but kinda smooth voice, said I love you. What was I supposed to say?”

“I love you back?! What are you on right now? Babe, I watch him on the tv almost every day, that man is perfect. I mean,” slow and low: “I’m sure he has his flaws, but no, he’s like, like that. With his hair, and his smile. He’s fucking Prince Charming. What happened?”

You sighed. “You know me since I was basically an infant. You were the only one who knew layers of me no one else did, not my parents, not my extended family, not our other friends or whatever. And he’s uncovering them. He’s a journalist, so I’d expect that. But he sees all these parts of me I hate and he loves them and I just... don’t understand.”

“I will send you to therapy. Why? What? This is perfect. This is acceptance, he loves you.”

“I just don’t know how to say it back,” you started tearing up, the heat in your eyes. “Look at my previous relationships, y’know. I always ended up alone. And... Last time? I ended up by myself, in my room, at 6 pm, when it was raining, you see how dramatic it is, and I was just crying and muttering: I don’t wanna be alone. And it was pathetic. I don’t want this. I don’t want to love just to lose. I don’t want that. I’m being straightforward right now, I don’t think I deserve this.”

“Look, I’ll be honest with you.” they said, their voice serious. “Two months ago, when your coworker died, and you weren’t friends with her or anything, it was just unexpected. Who was there to support you?”

“He was,” you murmured, like a child-like teen that was being lectured by their parents.

“Our mind is filled with these marvelous, exquisite experiences. When he kisses you, when he buys you something, when you go out with him or when he makes his silly little dad jokes — that I hate, by the way — you love it, don’t you?”

You chuckled. “You’re wrong! And yeah.”

“But love isn’t just good memories. It’s the bad ones too. When she died, and you were really sad, and I know that for a fact. He was there with you. And, who else but I and him was? No one, besides our friend group. The people that you thought would care didn’t, you told me that. And there it is: he was with you in a moment where even your mom was awkward and acting like it was taboo or something.”

“The first thing he did when I told him what had happened was hold me and tell me everything…” you said, and it came across as a realization. 

“Would be okay.”

“Yes, how do you know?”

“Because this is a good man, this is truly a good man. And you know my life is fucked up but I had my fair share of meeting good people. Such as you. And this is exactly what you would say in a situation like that. I know you’re afraid of getting hurt again, of being betrayed. And I can’t promise this relationship will be perfect. Because you’re both humans and people mess up sometimes, but I swear, my friend, he’ll try really hard. And he makes you happy, for so long I haven’t seen you this happy. Not about just him and you both, but about yourself, your creativity, your hobbies, your work. Like, fuck capitalism but you’re being productive as hell these past months. Love isn’t harming, it doesn’t hurt. It protects and feels good. And if it’s not peaceful, calming, it’s not love. So, I’ll just say it: do you love him?”

Silence.

* * *

A knock on his door. He opened it, in his pajamas. He smiled.

“Hi, (your name), come on in!” 

“Hey, Hugh.” you entered his house. “I wanted to apologize for last week.”

“Why? Apologize for what?”

“You know, just... Running away when you said that.” 

“Let’s sit down,” he picked your hand with gentleness and led you to his sofa. “Look, (your name), there’s no need for you to apologize. I know how hard it is to say the words, sometimes. And I know that maybe we’re feeling differently, right now, maybe I said it too soon. And my love is irrevocable. It needs to feel right, to you, saying that,” he laughed. “And maybe this will take a while. And I’m willing to wait.”

“I do, I do want to say it. I just... It’s hard. I fear that you’ll leave. And it’s an irrational fear, I know but it’s there and I’m just. This,” you pointed out between both of you. “This is something I’ve been shamed for all my life, my—” you couldn’t say the words. After all this time. 

“I know. Trust me, you don’t have to say anything. I know. I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all he said, and it was enough. You stayed the night. You watched him make coffee at 8pm, he diligently researched and wrote over his thoughts, you observed how his fingers would run with the pen and pencil. How he loved what he did. There wasn’t a big confession, and maybe it was better this way. His love was soothing, like a night breeze on a hot midsummer night. 

How he would walk, his sole feet, the coldness of the stone floor. The size of his calves. Him in his blue boxers filled with white dots. The suspicion at the neighbors. You saw the postcards of the places he had been. Landscapes of sea and salt and rocks. How every thirty minutes he took a break to inhale the chilly air. 

His hands are soft. Your smile is weak.

The lamplight covers his shoulders, as water falling, dropping, running through his bloodstream. 

At that moment, he’s like a rose. And you’d take from him, petal by petal, discovering each layer that you hadn’t noticed. And when he turned his back, you thought of reaching him. But decided not to.

  


* * *

The next morning, when the sun bliss fell in your eyes, he was sleeping on his stomach, bare-chested. You remembered seeing him crochet three months ago. Of the thinking he had. You ran your fingers through the extent of his back, passing each bump, as if it was a mountain and you were adventuring yourself there. How he’d get goosebumps, even whilst unconscious, when your fingers were a bit too close to the sides of his body.

He woke up giggly. His soft body. Gold light ripping apart the air and putting itself restfully in his body. His naked body. You hugged him, passionately. Comfort. Pressed down pillows.

You leaned closer, laying your head on his ear. And you said words. No one was there. No one but you two. And no one else would know what you said that morning. But he did. And you did. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

The tea. The rest. The caring. No one else was there, and no one else was supposed to be. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing


End file.
